Norse Night
by TheLaughingMan1
Summary: Pre-Avengers. A bored Natasha looks for a bit of excitement while on a mission, only to bite off more than she can chew in the form of an observant quarry. Natashsa/Loki, Blackfrost.


Natasha Romanov smiled charmingly as she walked through the Ball Room that belonged to Nikolai Brunsworth, a notorious arms dealer who operated in Norway. It was her first night on the job, so she was working on reconassance and watching who interacted with Brunsworth in a friendly manner. The seduction would come later then the kill. It was her standard opperating procedure, one that went back to long before S.H.I.E.L.D. had tracked her down. Ever since she escaped from the training facility at age eleven she had lived up to her name Black Widow by seducing wealthy men, learning where their bank accounts were, then killing them at the apex of her climax, using the thrill of murder to give her that extra bit of pleasure. To her, sex and murder have always been deeply connected where one fed the lust for the other. Few men had slept with her and lived to tell the tale, none of which had known who or what she was.

Judging by the tightness of her belly, she had the feeling that she would be satisfying both of her cravings tonight. Her pretty dark eyes leisurely traveled the room, seeking out an acceptably handsome and dangerous man for her prey. So long as she didn't blow her cover, Fury wouldn't care and Coulson would look the other way. Everyone had their quirks and kinks, her's just happened to be a bit more murderous than most people's. The inescapable vague sense of guilt would chase her down later, but until then her lusts were in charge and they drowned out any remnants of her practicly dead conscience. Her deceptively fragile fingers twitched, eager for a throat to wrap around and squeaze ever so deliciously while Natasha's mouth watered minutely as she fantasized about the murder to come, but first, she had to choose her victim.

There was a certain thrill to knowing you were the most dangerous person in a room. The familiar power high elated her and made her senses all the more keener, even as her eyes hungrily swept from side to side seeking out a partner. Men blushed under her heated gaze or return it lecherously, fooling themselves into believing that the look in her eyes was purely lust for physical pleasure when it was much deeper. It was why she loved how beautiful she was; victims litterally threw themselves at her. She never had to hunt them down. In some ways it was disappointingly easy, but the high was more than worth the disappointment. Her little kink ensured that she always got off, even if her partners never lived long enough to take pride in that fact. Sex and murder was more than a calling card for her, it was her way of life and in her mind there was no greater pleasure for her to have.

It was not long before her eyes fell on an unsusual quarry. It was the way that he was dressed that caught her attention more than his charmingly handsome features; black leather and jeans were distinctly out of place in a room full of criminals dressed in their Sunday best. His hair was light brown, short, and wavy to the point of being almost curly with a small matching beard that covered his aristocratic features. His nose was hawkish and leant him a predatory air that matched his intense emerald eyes and pale skin. He was leaned boredly against the wet bar, a tall glass of some dark thick alcoholic drink in his hand that looked downright nasty. A far cry from the champaign, wines, and fine scotches that the other guests were enjoying. She caught his green eyes and gave him a come hither smile, but to her surprise, he merely turned back to the bar and ignored her.

Natasha was shocked for a brief moment, then raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow in interest, quietly wondering whether the man was gay or merely disinterested. Either way made him a challenge and she so adored a good challenge. It made the sex that much hotter and the kill all the more sweeter, so she approached the bar, her walk a study in seduction that made all the men and some of the women turn their head as she passed. Casually, she took a seat on the stool next to his then waited for him to notice her. She waited quietly, but no words were forthcoming. His eyes were focused on his tall glass, staring into it's black syrupy contents and swirling it slightly causing faint green rims to encircle the inside of it. His inattention causing a flash of anger across her beautiful face before she snatched the glass out of his hand and chugged it down, gagging a bit at the strong taste and the thickness of the drink. It burned all the way down, sliding down her gullet like lava.

"Nasty drink." She commented, setting the glass back onto the bar carelessly. Green eyes glanced at her and a small taunting smirk graced his thin lips before he gestured for another drink to the half dressed girl who was bartending. Natasha licked her lips, trying to pinpoint what was in the drink she had just consumed. "Guiness and...scotch?"

"Absinthe." He stated finally, leaning a bit forward. There was a trace of amusement in his voice, a secret laugh as though he was in on a joke that nobody else knew and it lent him an air of arrogance. "Rather stout for one so little."

"I have a good tolerance." Natasha returned, then turned to the bartender as the blond girl sat another mix of the unholy concoction in front of the mystery man. "Straight vodka for me. Kauffman, if you have it."

"Coming right up." The bartender nodded, walking off to fetch the notoriously expensive brand of Russia's finest. The man was watching Natasha, an odd light in his green eyes that Natasha couldn't decipher. The blond girl returned swiftly with the tear shaped bottle and a shot glass. "Luxury Collection '08 acceptable?"

"It's fine." Natasha nodded, pouring the shot herself out of habit and shooting it back then repeating the action. She never had been one for sipping. "So, what brings you to Norway?"

"Redicovering my roots, as it were. Something of a vacation." He replied vaguely, his odd accent coming into play. Natasha frowned minutely as she tried to place it. The accent seemed a mix of Shakespearian English, German, and a definite trace of Norwedgian, but it sounded much more like the dialect spoken in Iceland. It worked well with his smooth rich voice, a voice that would have landed him a bed partner based on it's merit alone to say nothing of the oddly regal body language he had. "And what of you? Are you here for business or pleasure?"

"My business is my pleasure." She answered coyly, fingering her shot glass suggestively yet her companion merely focused on his drink again. Natasha felt like growling in annoyance at his inattention to her. He should have been eating out of her palm by now, not obsessed with getting drunk on that nasty drink of his. "My name is Natalie, Natalie Rushmore."

"Loke Winterborn, at your service, Ms. Rushmore." His words were impeccably well mannered, but his voice was bored in such a way that she felt insulted. "Now, I suggest you toddle off and seduce whatever fool unlucky enough to be charmed by your wiles."

His words caused the bartneder to snort in humor from where she was cleaning the glasses, earning a glare from Natasha. The red haired assassin gritted her teeth, now determined to both have Loke in her bed and dead before the night's end. She'd see how smug he was when she had her hands about his throat. Instead of showing her displeasure, Natasha instead pouted in such a way that she knew enflamed men's desire, "And what if I wanted to seduce you instead, Mr. Winterborn?"

"Oh, no. No thank you. I much prefer to have my throat whole and intact, little rogue." He smirked at her knowingly, green eyes glinting for a moment with a strange energy that she wrote off as a trick of the light. It threw Natasha for a loop and for one brief second her face actually registered genuine shock.

"What's life without a little risk? Don't tell me you are frightened of little ole me?" Natasha teased, not refuting his words. She poured herself another shot and downed it like water. Not all Russians drank vodka, contrary to popular sterotype, but most did have a strong tolerance for vodka nonetheless. It was something of a national pride for them. "Make it worth my time and I might even let you live."

"Why would I even chance such an encounter?" Loke questioned, sounding honestly curious. She shrugged and tossed the key to her hotel room onto the bar in fron of him before standing up. She walked a few steps before turning back to him, a taunting smile on her lips that dared him to follow her.

"Curiosity. You have to know what it's like." With that, she strutted off through the crowd making sure to swing her hips teasingly as she left.

Loki Odinson stared down at the hotel room key, then glanced back at the strange woman. He sat there frowning for a long moment, before gulping down the rest of his drink and snatching up the key. He stared down at the key in his, then at the rounded rear of the woman that was apparant given her skin tight black dress. After a second, he sighed in defeat, "Blasted woman. She's right."


End file.
